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      December 21, 2024What Is My Life About?Julie Price Pinkerton

      This naked, lonely question
      is still simmering in a crock pot
      on the counter of a beach bungalow
       
      where no one lives. But if you like,
      I can show you some examples of what falls
      out of my life when it’s whacked like a piñata:
       
      My friend Emily reminisces about the cat
      she used to have, and still misses.
      “Clearly, Pippin and I were telepathic.”
       
      In my collection of very bad Christmas decorations
      there is a cloisonné manger scene with a baby Jesus
      who has a snout like a piglet.
       
      I have been criticized for always looking downward
      when I walk. But in only five decades I have found enough
      coins to sink a rowboat.
       
      If I were a household object I would insist
      on being a gooseneck lamp or the yarn mane
      of a toy horse.
       
      Most of my prayers are like drive-by shootings.
      Please help me. Please save her. Thank you
      for the parking spot.

      from #45 - Fall 2014

      Julie Price Pinkerton

      “I am a poet of faith. I’ve never written that sentence before. I was raised in a Baptist church on a gravel road on the outskirts of Brazil, Indiana. All of Brazil, Indiana, is kind of an outskirt. The church of my childhood was weird and toxic. Long story. At the center of it: Our pastor’s son (who became a pastor himself) was a pedophile. Nobody knew this until many years later, but something was off there, and I could tell. I hated going there. I stuck with my faith, though. Went to a really small Methodist college, the University of Evansville. A battering ram hit my faith in God when I was a freshman and our school’s entire basketball team was killed in a plane crash. Among the lost was the boy I had just started dating. But faith was still there, flailing. Post-college adult stuff. Marriage, divorce, the switching of churches, the switching of denominations (within Christianity), jobs, cities, marriage again, and hobbling along with my belief in God, which never leaves, but baffles me repeatedly like a train I can hear blaring somewhere in the woods but I cannot find the tracks. I’m 54 now. And Christ is still the only thing that makes sense to me. My atheist friends find this quaint. That’s OK.”

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